He Fell
by PinkIsMyColor
Summary: John Watson is having to cope with Sherlock's death-I mean fall...and unsaid words. How will he make it? Sorry I suck at summaries and this is the first fanfic not solely constructed and trapped inside my head.
1. Mandatory Suicide

**These characters (and the cover image) do not belong to me.**

John could still see his friend's silhouette up on the rooftop. It didn't matter that it had been months and months since he…he _fell, _and no amount of time can change the memory. John's dreams used to be plagued with bombs and his troop's screams to each other, now all he hears is the sound of his friend's smooth voice disrupted by the edge of tears and a silhouette falling…and falling…then it stops.

_This phone call…it's my note. That's what most people do don't they? They leave a note…_

Sherlock. You're not most people, you're fucking Sherlock. He couldn't be dead…he always escaped…some clever trapdoor that only he could see in that huge palace in his mind. John has never grieved like he was now, he wasn't living in 221B…he was only occupying.

Ms. Hudson is normal, she blusters about the flat constantly muttering that we should "tidy" up which meant getting rid of Sherlock's stuff and finding my own. That'd be too much like saying goodbye for good, and Sherlock was like her son, and no mother should ever bury her child. However…where does that leave John? He's just a _friend_, and friends bury each other all the time…at least he's buried many during Afghanistan, and he moved on. Why was Sherlock any different?

There were things that he had wished that he had said…a way to make him step down. There was something so wrong about Sherlock's—...fall…His Sherlock wouldn't give up so easily. He wouldn't care what the unimportant folks had to say, he cared for the important ones. John liked to think that he was one of them…at least that's how _he _felt for Sherlock. Before him…there was nothing…nothing but static…_Bzzzz….zzzzz…zzzz…_and John was hearing it again.

* * *

John's therapist has suggested that he take a job, maybe there will be a sense of normalcy, except she didn't understand that being with Sherlock drove it all away. Maybe a job could bring John back…right? He found a job at a cozy little café not too far away from their—_his _flat. Seven hours a day where he can practice being a proper Englishman doling out tea to the deserving Brits. He never thought that tea could make him so sick.

"Bloody hell they're talking about this twit again?" Says some man as John serves him his tea. Upon his newspaper was Sherlock's face with his misconceptionally trademarked hat. John immediately put on his poker face and pretended to be interested.

"Mmhhh who?" He placed the teacups ever so delicately in front of him and his friends.

"This bloody fraud Sherlock! As if one fraud wasn't enough in the media, now we have these fakes leaking into our criminal justice systems. It's all for fame I tell you! I'm bloody glad he tossed himself off that building, the fraud bloody deserved it." John was shaking, a shiver that started at his neck and his mouth snapped itself out of its poker face, and he was done. Suddenly his blood was lava and the tears that he constantly holds back boiled at the top of the dam. The teapot in his hands shattered on the floor, scalding hot tea splashing over him, but he didn't care.

He ripped that newspaper out the man's hands and clenched it with his fist and pounded the table, making the little teacups do a little skip.

"He was NOT a fraud. He was my friend and he saved me from this monotony that his de—fall has left me in. I would have done ANYTHING do stop him, but I couldn't. I bloody failed. But there's one thing…ONE THING I can do. It is to make bloody well sure that _every _chance I get, to clear his name from assholes like you who believe everything you see in a tabloid. You can read all the papers in the world and they will never compare to the man I know in my mind. He is _my_ friend and I—, "John's words suddenly derailed themselves off a cliff, leaving him hanging there in shock. The man stood up…proving to be a lot taller than John…and muscular.

"And you _what…?_" He sneered in his face, his dulled teeth bared and the stink of cigarettes shared intimately between them. "Bachelor Watson I take it?" He looked him up and down disdainfully, "Little high strung for something so platonic, ever thought that maybe he feigned you two's '_friendship'_…" He took a moment to humorlessly laugh, "You aren't worth my time Shorty, luckily all I want from you is my money back." John said nothing; he just swallowed and peeled himself from the situation.

* * *

That night John had a dream that he was at St. Bart's hospital again, he was standing in the empty road. Everything was empty, no cars, and no people…nothing but the roads and buildings. His phone rang…he answered.

"John?" Spoke a voice deeply. It was Sherlock…Sherlock!

"Where are you?" Suddenly his chest spasmed in panic, where was this panic from? Déjà vu…something was going to happen.

"St. Bart's…look up." He looked and up against the sky was a long-coated silhouette with his stupid collar turned up on the edge of the fucking rooftop. His heart stopped cold in his chest.

"Sherlock…stop...NO! Come down from there!" Screams welled themselves up in his cold chest, he wanted to move forward but his feet were paved in with the road.

"I—I can't, I'll just have to do it this way," Sherlock's strong voice wavered…something that intensified John's fear at this moment.

"Please! Sher—."

"Goodbye John." He hung up and dropped his phone on the roof, he fell.

"NO!" John ran so fast as he fell so slowly, like an angel, his wings were his coat. In seconds John was beneath him, ready to catch, but Sherlock's body passed right through him as though John were a ghost. *CRACK*

John flipped him over and straddled him, hands on his shoulders…"Please Sherlock no…" He croaked. "You idiot, please wake up…"

"John?" He heard the body rasp…he clutched his blood smeared face and his bright blue eyes.

"Sherlock?" John said through his silent tears.

"I—," suddenly he stopped, and the life behind his eyes detached itself.

"Yes?!" John clutched his collar tighter. "Sherlock! What were you gonna' say?! You what?!" He couldn't take it anymore and he collapsed himself into the dead man's chest, wishing he could smother himself there. "I never told you…Sherlock, I never said it. What I've always wanted to say, but now it's too late. I lost here."

And John found himself with his face buried in a wet pillow and a dry throat. He had half the mind to do nothing, and hopefully die of dehydration, but that would take too long. He'll tough it out he decided…just a little longer, and he arose out of his bed. Slowly standing up, and it was like left leg had turned into wood because as soon as he stood up on it he fell over. Shit. Not this again.

It was back…John didn't try to get up; he just lied there and sobbed. No use holding it back anymore. John wasn't sure how long he lied there but it didn't matter, at one point he heard the door to his room open.

"Ohh John dearie what's wrong?" Mrs. Hudson shuffled in, in her grandma nightie, and kneeled next to him and stroked his back. He pointed disdainfully at his leg.

"…It's back." And he sobbed some more, and she tried to shush him and somehow she ended up cradling him.

"This is about him isn't it? Honey I miss him too but he'd want us to carry on and be happy without him, we need to try our best hon." She petted his blond curls as tears ran down his face and onto her.

"I can't…I can't do this anymore. I'm useless, we need him Mrs. Hudson. _I _need him, but I'd rather it'd be me who fell." She held him tighter as his sobs became less like sobbing and more like whimpering.

"Now John…don't you _ever_ say that. Goodness knows that man doesn't do anything without a reason. He liked you a whole lot and I know he wouldn't want to see _you _like this." She said quietly, and the tears came to a halt...and she patted him on the back. "Tomorrow I'll make you some cookies, and milk, I've been noticing how you've been drinking less tea here," she said as though she was his mother. John said nothing as she eased him off of her and she quietly walked out of the room.

"Mrs. Hudson…" she stopped. "He didn't kill himself. They did it…starting with his name…and they killed him…just…it was murder…" She stood in the doorway, looking pitifully at him.

"Yes they did John…yes they did."

***Sooo that's the first chapter...what did you think? Please let me know 3***


	2. Words Left Unsaid

***Nothing has changed and I still don't own the characters***

John sat stoically in the overly cushioned chair, across from his therapist.

"How've you been holding up lately?" She asked. Why didn't she ever ask him directly what she _really _wanted to talk about? She knew exactly how it was going…she could at least make an educated guess.

"You're really going to play that?" He huffed, looking away from her in irritation.

"I beg your pardon?" she said, showing no sign that she knew anything. John's hand spasmed…something that had gone along with his limp a while back.

"You do this thing…where you pretend not to know anything. When Sher—_he_ fell and I came to you again…you pretended that you knew _nothing_ about any of the possible reason's I _could _be here. Now I come in here _limping_ again, and you can't even guess that I'm _possibly_ 'holding' up terribly? Are you for real?!" He eyed her face carefully for any sign, and she was quite good at keeping a neutral expression, but she raised her eyebrows and sucked in a lengthy breath as she set her notes aside.

"John," she slowly rubbed her palms on her lap and tucked her hair behind her ear, getting ready for a talk. "The thing is…you're exactly right. I know nothing and I will keep doing that 'thing'. I may know several possibilities of what _could_ be going through your head versus what _really_ is. _I _can't address every single one of those possibilities because I might be wrong. _My_ job is to analyze what's going through your head…to see a pattern, but _your_ job is to give me something I can work with. I can't do my job if you don't do yours, I'd be like a historian analyzing events one hundred years ahead of now when they should be analyzing a hundred years back…see my point? Yes John, I noticed you had a limp and I can conjure up theories, but until you tell me, I may as well assume you were attacked by a dog."

John was taken aback…his mouth opened and closed failing multiple times to answer until he decided on a simple: "Oh…"

"So, will you tell me?" She rearranged herself into a listening position, knees crossed, notepad out. John closed his eyes and nodded…taking a moment to breathe, "Whenever you're ready," she assured.

"I don't know if I can…" he shuddered, feeling his stomach clench on himself, he didn't like opening up.

"The trust issues thing right?" she asked, and he nodded. "Well you know about our confidentiality policy—."

"It isn't _just_ that." He stopped her, looking at his lap.

"You keep your emotions very well hidden…it's about vulnerability isn't it?" She pried, chewing on the cap of her pen. He nodded almost shamefully. Shameful isn't something he does. "Well I know asking you to blog it all is out of question, sometimes the only way to heal a wound is to open it again." He stayed silent, thinking over this. "Would telling Sherlock about this help? You did say a while ago that you said something to him at his grave." He nodded again. "Pretend you're talking to him…praying, if you will, if you want, keep your eyes closed, or I can turn myself around as you talk." He sighed, and agreed and so he told her. He told her the dream in great detail from every feeling and word, and he hesitated when it came to the last thing he said.

"It's actually a recurring dream…some things change slightly. Sometimes I catch him but he still dies…or I can't run at all when he falls, and the pavement swallows me…or sometimes he completely disappears into the sidewalk and I drown in his blood…but it's always the same in the way that he never completes that sentence." John trails off and he feels lighter. The lightness scares him, as well as his therapist's pursed lips and unfocused eyes.

"And this is the first time you've awoken from this dream with a limp?"

"Yes ma'am" He nods somberly. She adjusts her position into a more relaxed stance.

"Your relationship with Sherlock…platonic, no?" She waves her hands inquisitively. John let out an impatient sigh, why was his sexuality always questioned? No matter how many times he says the word "Straight" people keep asking. Mrs. Hudson, the tabloids…it never ends. It was _always _platonic.

"_Always._" His foot tapped impatiently.

"Are you lying? Because it's okay if you had feelings that go beyond the 'friend zone.'" He tossed his head back, exasperated once again.

"I _know_ it's okay goddammit, but I still like girls!" He rubbed his temples, irritated that he was still having this conversation.

"Well unfortunately, it has been overlooked quite frequently, but sexuality isn't black and white. It's fluid…liking one man doesn't make you gay, you could like _many _men and fall in love with a woman—," she was cut off again.

"YES_ yes…_I _know._ But Sherlock and I were _platonic!"_ She finally backed off.

"Very well then...anything else?" She asked, becoming her neutral self again.

"Nono, that'd be it then." He shook his head finitely and used his cane to maneuver himself up.

"Well then, I believe our session is coming to a close…"

"Okay good and thanks—."

"But John…I have one more theory…" she turned on her speculating face.

"Yes?" He positioned himself so he was politely listening again, urging her to continue.

"Sometimes the words left unsaid tend to be the most haunting ones…so I'm wondering if these dreams have anything to do with something you regret not saying. To me it sounds _very_ likely, and another thing…about your limp. It's psychosomatic, it first appeared after the war you know, when you were shot…PTSD partly I guess. What if a part of you missed the war, being wounded made you "useless" so that stuck in your mind…the "useless" part. It left you psychologically useless…then Sherlock comes, and finds you useful. His faith in you made you feel a heightened sense of self-worth, and now that he's gone…you're lost again…." She trailed off, she was never speaking to him…just sharing her thoughts, John could've chosen to not listen but he did and that's why he froze. "Is it right?" She questioned.

"Maybe," he said nonchalantly, not looking at her and leaning heavily on his cane.

"Maybe…" she whispered to herself quietly, "well it's just a theory…if it feels right to you, think on it, after all. What do I know?" She shrugged light-heartedly standing up, and leading him out of their session.

If it wasn't right…then he wouldn't have heard.

…

* * *

…

_Many months prior to Sherlock's fall…_

It was the dreams again…bombs going off and his fellow soldier's cries of pain…he only had them one or two times a week. He has never had semi-decent dreams reflecting on the good of his fellow men, it always comes later when he awakes after seeing them blown to bits. Thinking about the good moments after these nightmares helps him cope…to come to terms with himself, but in the dreamscape he has no control, it doesn't matter if Sir Richard lived a happy 50 years of life filled with grandkids, in his dreams Sir Richard's blood is on his hands.

Tonight the dream was different. After being shot and put in the infirmary his men gather around him, but there's something different about them. It was their eyes. They were filled with hatred and betrayal; they were covered in bullet holes and soaked in dried blood. Some men had whole chunks of their heads blown away, along with missing limbs.

"John we miss you." They say approaching him.

"You're late…we thought you cared," he couldn't reply…his throat was stuck together.

"They took a head count…everyone showed up…except _you_," many grabbed onto him, grabbing him wherever they could reach, they all wanted him. All his sorries built themselves up inside his chest.

"But it's okay John, all's forgiven in the afterlife."

"Just come nice and easy, close your eyes and sleep and let us carry you." He flailed on his hospital bed, their twisted faces blocked anything else…they were all that was left. All the apologies he wanted to say were screaming inside his head.

"No John. You can't fight this. This is what you deserve. Your reward." They all wanted a piece of him, but he continued to kick and flail wishing he could wash them away with the torrents of tears leaking from the broken facets in his eyes. The pain intensified as they started to tear off his flesh…some ripping, some peeling. Some gnawed while others filleted the muscle right off his bone. Finally they opened his chest, snapping his ribs like twigs and beating him with them to an unrecognizable pulp. _I'm done _he thought, as his vision blurred.

"John…" the room spun…man smeared into man, lights into halos. "_John!" _His name was chanted as he shook. He could still feel his tears burning canals into his skin. "For fuck's sake John, wake up!" He jolted awake.

He found himself in the embrace of a live man, he was held up to his robed chest by his strong arms and his head cradled into the crook of his next. He could feel the man's strong hands stroke his back soothingly. Though his sobs became quieter the man held him tighter.

"John? Are you okay?" Asked a worried Sherlock, his own ragged breathing becoming smoother as he inhaled his scent…a very manly smell, John still shook, but his hysteria was quelled as he opened his eyes and his vision was blocked by Sherlock's dark curls. He exhaled heavily. "John?" He didn't answer he just arranged his arms around his lean torso…very lightly and rested his head more relaxed into his neck. Suddenly…but gently Sherlock untangled John from himself (not letting him too far though). He put his hands lightly on either side of John's face, "John? I really need you to answer me." His voice shook.

"Yeah…I mean no…I mean it was only a dream…" He blubbered.

"I gathered. John, you were screaming…" His incandescent eyes searched his.

"Oh…sorry," he shied slightly away, but Sherlock wouldn't let him. He entangled his long fingers in John's blonde curls.

"No. John you _aren't_ sorry. You have _no _reason to be sorry. What haunts you? Tell me, maybe I can make it go away…" John shuddered.

"They died Sherlock…my troop, we were supposed to go together…and I betrayed them and stayed here. God I wish I could have gone with—," He was cut off.

"Nononono! Don't you dare say that! Don't you _EVER_ say that! I don't want you go, I am so glad that you stayed, you are the best thing to have happened to me." His voice started shaking again and his hands trembled, and John could've sworn he saw tears peak over the edge of his eyelids.

"But it was my fault…" he trailed off, becoming quieter, and Sherlock put his forehead against his.

"John…it wasn't—it was never your fault." Sherlock's voice soothed as he closed his eyes.

"…They wanted me back…" John muttered into the limited space between them. Suddenly Sherlock's eyes opened to pierce his with their brilliance.

"Well they won't have you." The space between them was closed off as Sherlock's lips crashed into his, tasting every little bit of him. One hand trailed down his neck as the other combed through his hair. John snaked his hands up his back, feeling him and pulling himself chest to chest with him. Sherlock gently pulled himself away stroking his cheek with his thumb. "You should sleep…" he said softly.

"Again…?" John shivered; Sherlock wiped away an old tear. "Remember last time?" Sherlock smiled softly.

"I'll be in the other room…" he said half-heartedly.

"So far?" For a second Sherlock looked as if he wanted to stay, his will caving, but then a wall snapped into place.

"I'm an attentive sleeper…I'll be listening," he pulled his hand gingerly away and tiptoed to the doorway turning to wish John a goodnight. John listened for him as he got into his own bed, the springs creaking, and he softly lay back in his own bed and couldn't help the feeling of disappointment settling itself down into his heart, pushing him harder into the bed. John drifted to back to a dreamless sleep clinging onto the hope that Sherlock would remember in the morning.

…

* * *

….

That morning was a fair one. John awoke precisely at nine to the sound of a tea kettle brewing. He came out in his striped pajamas and robe, his heart anxiously rolling in his chest.

"Mornin'," he nodded casually at his flat mate who had his nose in the paper.

"Mmhmm, tea's about ready and I've already prepared you toast with jam," he said without wavering from his paper. He wondered if he'd address last night at all…maybe soon…he prepared his tea in silence, and sat down with his toast. Still he said nothing, the paper was the barrier.

"Sooo…I was wondering…" John cleaved open the silence.

"Mmmh?" Sherlock hummed not showing any interest.

"Anything interesting in the paper?" John quickly copped out.

"Nope, it's _all_ unimportant," Sherlock sighed as he flipped the page muttering about the idiocy of the journalists. John built the nerve again.

"Last night…I was wondering…" he trailed off, trying to pull Sherlock's attention.

"Yes?" There was the nonchalance again, and John's hopes deflated.

"I was wondering if you've found any interesting cases yet…?" He mumbled.

"Well I haven't looked…read them out to me, would you mind?" John nodded and got up to find the envelope and cursed himself. How could he be so stupid? Sherlock doesn't care, or he forgot inside that massive mind of his, which is very unlikely. Once again John squashed that stupid tremor in his heart with a stamp that spelled "PLATONIC" in huge lettering and he sealed it away to gather cobwebs and mold.

***There goes the second chapter. Did you like that little Johnlock moment? Please…****_please_**** let me know xD***


	3. Smoke and Mirrors

***And still I own nothing…enjoy xD***

"You were fired?" Asked an incredulous Mrs. Hudson unto a pacing John Watson, carefully she set down the tea platter and went to stop him mid-pace.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson I was fired." He huffed repeatedly rubbing his face in his palms; honestly he really wasn't too troubled. It was a minor inconvenience as Sherlock would've said, and '_terribly dull.' _Mrs. Hudson gasped worriedly.

"Oh no John…why?" He just sighed.

"You know…it doesn't even matter, just a…_minor_ disagreement with a customer." He put his hands on his hips and looked at the ground in a way that signified that he was deciding to just "pass it off," because that's all he can do. Nothing was really important, his mind was distorted and his eyes burned from this new… "take" on life. The crowd…it really is so dull.

"Oh!" She clamped her hands over her mouth.

"—Really Mrs. Hudson…it was a _real_ boring job, the strict routine…all the same people, same crowd…it was driving me mad. Good thing I was cut off before I stabbed my own eyes out with a spoon." He said trying to make light (although he was dead serious), because she was honestly being too much like a mom whose child had been dropped out of school…but without the anger.

"If you say so dear," she went to fix him a cup of tea, "I knew you wouldn't last long there anyway…" now it was her moment of light-hearted truth.

"Excuse me?" He turned suddenly to her, who became very fixated on the tea.

"Well you know…" She motioned her head toward him as though he had a clue what _anyone_ ever meant.

"What? I know what?!" Poor old John, always in the dark…she smiled as she served him his tea.

"Well serving tea to the 'common folk' is a little bit of a scene change you know…" She sat down knowingly, awaiting a little "talk."

"Yeah…so?" He did his little hunch with his knuckles on his hips, and knew he after all was expected to sit down and listen.

"Really John?! Don't be daft! I've heard that you went through quite an adjustment going from Afghanistan to Civilian life…don't you think it's the same going from Holmes's Sidekick to Tea Waiter?" John was silent as he sat down biting his lip, willing himself to listen as Mrs. Hudson continued. "My point is John…you're selling yourself short. You had this whole rediscovery of yourself with Sherlock, then he…he falls and suddenly you're 'nothing' again?! NO! John, snap out of it. I'm not your mother, but after all we've been through, it's hard not to feel maternally towards you and…_and_ Sherlock. He believed in you, and I believe in him. He wouldn't let any old dunce to be in his company, he saw something in you and you need to pick yourself up and put yourself out there again. John. Wake up!" Something inside him did perk a lazy ear forward. Mrs. Hudson…oblivious one moment, and having heart-to-heart discussions the next, making him poke his head out of the smoke.

"So…what do you want me to do?" He asked sincerely, attempting to open himself to an attempt. She rolled her eyes.

"I don't want you to _do_ anything; I want you to find something that makes you feel worthwhile. We all need a way to cope, and drowning out your mind with…with _monotony_ is a really bad drug to be on." She reached out a hand to his knee and looked at him warmly. She stood up silently and kissed him on the top of the head. "I really care for you John, dear…so don't waste your life, you've only got one and it gets better." She left, leaving John in a thoughtful silence. He got what she was saying, and the idea of getting up and actually doing something made his heart heavy.

However, the idea of letting himself rot here while living really didn't fancy him, so he thought. Sherlock would really disapprove of him settling with "monotony," of course…how can he ever see things in the same light he had once known now that the source was gone…shattered into pavement and buried six feet under.

…..

"So you're doing this again?" Lestrade raised his eyes from the resume, and analyzed John, who was sitting calmly with his hands neatly folded and his chin slightly up and forward. He could _still_ though, more or less sense the feeling that trailed behind him like a wisp of smoke. You only see the wisp, Watson is a soldier and he doesn't let his guard down, even though he was asphyxiating internally from the smoke and mirrors of his mind…but that was a more preferable place than his heart. There's nothing there, just a bolted off void with a dummy one around it to make him remember how to seem human.

If he didn't let himself be lost in his smoke, and driven insane by the mirrors that distorted his memories to shards that cut…he'd be swallowed by the void, and no one could pull him out. Maybe he can further distract himself though…he needed a detective, someone to make a shadow next to him where there wasn't even a considerate ghost…just smoke and mirrors.

"Yes. I'm very sure." John affirmed. Lestrade shifted in his seat…and his thoughts.

"You know John…I know how close you two were and this—well this seems a bit like a rebound if you get what I mean…" He absently twirled his pen on his desk as though words were spaghetti that he needed to _carefully_ twist around the fork.

"No… I just figured I'd make myself useful," he added a chinky smile for good measure; Lestrade breathed out heavily through his nose, and uncapped his pen. Lestrade actually had a lot of thoughts on John being here, and an awkward feeling that he could have made things very different. John wouldn't be here in this pathetic looking position trying to fill a hole, and the professional and human part of him were going at it. _'Let John try,' 'No, he doesn't have the right background…unprofessional,' _and he was being _very _unprofessional to allow the past to manipulate his decisions.

"Alright then." He said louder than necessary…he decided to let this go, it really wasn't his business…and there was guilt involved too. He wasn't innocent in the poor man's heartbreak, though he Lestrade had faith in Sherlock, in his mind he still let him down. Even for a man as stone-faced as Sherlock had been, no one could take the pressure of everyone turning against him, even if he was a fake. With a sigh he signed something and handed it to John. "I'm doing this as a regretful friend John, not as a professional…I know it's been hard after…that…but I can't just let you waltz into any position here, so I'm giving you a trial run, which I've never done but right now the 'professional' in me isn't working so I'll compromise."

"Thanks sir…" John gulped, about sick of all the sympathetic speeches, but he guessed he had it coming. Later he'll beat himself up for being the "special case" that everyone makes exceptions for, but now he decided that he should be grateful for a chance at normal again, and not being left to his own devices in his own mind. He took the formal looking paper and with a respectful nod they parted ways.

***Done with Chapter 3, which was probably less interesting or good than it was filler, but I can't exactly get to the good stuff without the "before" stuff can I? Reviews are appreciated. Love ya'! 3***


	4. Dead Detectives and 'Dull' Cases

***If I owned it, John and Sherlock would finally confess their love for eachother…***

**Sherlock POV **

It's fun being dead. No one pests you there, because no one knows you're there. Since they don't know you're there, they don't talk to you of the unimportant things. When he needs to retreat to his mind palace, he doesn't need to be polite and tell them to shut up. They've all shut up now, except for when he wants them to fawn over his brilliance…he just opens a door.

'This is a very _enjoyable _death,' he thinks as soon as he wakes up in a different place each morning. Each day that passes is a very likely chance he could die; for once he had one big case all to himself. It was like a present…topped with barbed wire, any moment it could spring him in the face. No worries though, because "Sherlock the Fake Genius" took his own life. Now all his troubles are away.

"It's called 'vacation'." The nonchalance cools the air. Sherlock keep's his surprise to himself as he turns to face his friend, John who was absorbed in the newspaper like he would normally.

"I beg your pardon?" John casually flips the page ignoring him as he sips his tea, Sherlock waited until he looked up at him over the paper.

"It's what ordinary people do…they go on vacations to have fun and to have no worries," John had that "look" that meant _'You're brilliant but you're clue-less.' _He turned to the mirror to fix his appearance, which had changed in the last six-months. He didn't look intelligent, or someone "posh," he had grown out his scruff and his hair was longer…he couldn't risk looking like "Sherlock Holmes".

"Oh, I was unaware they went on secret missions so often to fight terror networks," he said messing his hair into his face.

"Yeah normally to the beach ya' know…and they usually tell their bosses…and family…_friends_," John was great at shooting icicles in his words without changing expressions, but he didn't let on.

"Oh Mycroft knows…Mom and Dad know a little…" nonchalance…that's something he's great at.

"Oh, but do _I_ know?" He slammed down his paper, and spilling his tea all over, "Agh!"

"You don't." It was best if he ended this conversation…_he's not real. _He closed his eyes, trying to escape him, but something in him wouldn't let him. He growled softly through clenched teeth.

"Exactly. Being your friend I think I should know…does that make sense?" Sherlock didn't answer he just kept his eyes closed. "But you wouldn't know. Sherlock, you're a cold-hearted, unfeeling machine." John hissed, now inches from his face.

"I don't have friends and I didn't invite you here." He simply stated, while regaining his stoic expression, because machines don't feel.

"Then make me go away. It should be easy," Sherlock opened his eyes and stared right back at his friend. He found it…difficult.

"You can't."

"Elementary, Watson." He sneered.

"No you _can't_. Want to know why?" He asked, and he didn't answer. "It's because you want me here. You regret leaving the way you did. You regret leaving me out." He was silent…he shouldn't talk to him. It would feed him.

"I don't regret it. It was to protect you." He looked away, not willing to let him see into his eyes, to see the flicker of pain licking at his walls like little flames.

"Sherlock...if it's not regret…?" John came closer to him, to touch him, and he almost let him…_HE'S NOT REAL! _He swung out at the vision in a burst of fury.

"GET OUT OF MY MIND!" He yelled, throwing a lamp at him. Shards went everywhere, and the crash chased John away. He paused, as he heaved and trembled. This wasn't right. He clenched the side of his head between his hands. He needs more control of himself; he's supposed to have the clear mind, he's 'Sherlock,' he's the collected one, but for a split moment he lost it. _I'll be more careful. _He shuddered as he acknowledged that everyone would die if he failed.

Being dead is really no fun.

…..

**John's Pov**

Today is John's first day at his new job working with a 'real' detective. He's handling it well; he's just only a bit manic. He's brewed his tea three different times because it wasn't getting done quick enough, as ridiculous as it sounds. Mrs. Hudson came up twice to see what all the shuffling was about, he'd make her go away because he was fine, and she knew better than to push him.

Eventually though, he brought himself to his new office which was in an unimpressive brick building. He knocked on the door that said: 407 Detective Shelley.

"Come in," spoke a man. John entered into a dismal office with two cushioned chairs, which reminded him of his Grandma's. Detective Shelley sat himself in one of them, he was a middle aged man who looked older because of a creased face not accustomed to smiling, and elongated by his cropped salt and peppered hair.

"Hello sir, I'm John," he held out a hand which the Detective firmly shook. He gestured to the chair across from him.

"So maybe we should get to know each other. I'm Detective Shelley, and you're John Watson I gather…" he sat back with a smirk as he brought an old pipe to his lips. John nodded in affirmation, and a dangerous light danced in his dark eyes, "Ah I've seen you in the papers…'Bachelor Watson,' companion to the 'Consulting Detective,' Sherlock Holmes. Hmm I don't remember you having a limp…?" He nodded toward his leg, raising his bushy eyebrows.

"Yeah…uhm, it's a recurring thing…" John said softly looking down at his hands, feeling very awkward vibes.

"Your information sheet, says you're a doctor yes?" He asked inquisitively, John affirmed… "You're not accustomed to Detective work…no?" John lifted a finger and opened his mouth to be cut off. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't count. He's a fraud, and you were nothing more than a victim he used as his walking cheerleader." John felt the knife again, searing at his insides straight down the middle, but he said nothing. He needs this job. "Personally I don't think you qualify for this, so what I say goes. You write what I tell you, and do not talk unless spoken to. I bet it's not much of a difference for you though. Is that right?" He stayed silent. "IS THAT RIGHT!?"

"YES SIR!" He answered, startled.

"Goodman." He handed him a notepad. "_Now. _Our first case today…" John took notes as his stomach sank; he kept it all in though, swept underneath a carpet. Now he was reduced to a robot, taking on one of those terribly 'dull' cases.

***So there's the next chapter, what did you think? Let me know because I like that stuff…have a nice day xD***


	5. Biting the Bullet

***I own nothing sadly, except for myself and an assortment of poems, also in another note up ahead in this chapter there are going to be gay slurs that I in no way support the usage of. I am not homophobic but the character is.***

**Sherlock POV**

"You think you've won," a voice came from the big office chair in the middle of the room. Sherlock did a quick survey of the room; it'd be terrible to come all this way to fall prey to a trap, it was only slightly surprising that he hadn't bit down already. They all seem to have some sort of cyanide releasing mechanism in their back molar.

"No. I _know _it," said Sherlock as he sauntered into the boss's office which smelled of smoke and the dead plants sitting on ledges that were a failed attempt to brighten the place up.

"You fool," he approached the chair carefully, towards the grinning voice. He grabbed the back of the chair and spun it around. The man didn't even fight, but huffed smoke into Sherlock's face, and put his cigarette out on the arm of his chair.

"I'm the one who dismantled this limb of yours, and your men barely fought as they were torn down brutally. And you're just sitting here, doing nothing. The least you can do is run." The old man just smirked and smiled a rotten smile that made his skin crinkled around his sunken eyes. He really was quite pathetic looking to be any sort of boss.

"Why would I run when I know there's nothing to run from?" The man lit another cigarette.

"Nothing huh? You just let your pathetic limb of a network crumble? You're a disappointment." The tall detective growled.

"You've gotten angry…and I haven't even lifted a finger. However to answer your sub- textual hate-filled question…It's my God's will." He smirked.

"Your _God_?!" Sherlock scoffed and took a step back and scoffed some more. "Never took you men as the religious type."

"Oh I'm not, but I'll agree on everyone else's behalf…he's the closet to God there'll ever be." Sherlock grabbed the chair and pulled him close to his face.

"And who is _'he'"_

"Moriarity." The man grinned his blackened grimace, and with that Sherlock pulled his face closer to his and smirked.

"Your God ate his own lead." And he laughed maniacally and hacked phlegm into Sherlock's disgusted face, "You repel me," He spat back and turned around to leave the scum to bite his little pill and die.

"I'm surprised you ever jumped, Sherlock," the scum continued to chuckle. "Have the world believe you're a fraud!" Sherlock stopped and heaved a frustrated sigh.

"You really should bite down," but he didn't stop.

"Even your dear John believed didn't he?" He shook like an over excited Chihuahua.

"He believes what he must."

"Is he your friiieend?" he sauntered halfway to the disgusted man.

"Doesn't matter." And he tried to continue on.

"That's it…you _machine_, just run away from every last fucking thing. Why'd you even jump, it's not like you ever gave a shit, Sherlock, all you are is a brain and you wouldn't even cry if you had let them blow off your _sweet_ John's head—," suddenly the man couldn't breathe as his airway was cut off by a pair of thick hands.

"You're right, I'm a sociopath and can kill you right now with no remorse," Sherlock growled in the scum's ear as his grip tightened. The man struggled and his face turned many shades of red, "but that wouldn't be any fun." He let go, leaving him gasping for air. "You can bite down, or continue to be a pathetic piece of shit among a failing network. I don't care." With that he whooshed away.

…..

"He was a _fraud." _ He was a boy compared to John, tattooed and annoying, and probably about to die. John gritted his teeth as though "his cool" was a fraying rope that he was trying to hold on to. He held his gun firmly planted between his eyes.

"You can come willingly or I will shoot you in the foot and I will drag you by your ears," he threatened through clenched teeth. The boy just laughed.

"Damn I'm _really _scared, an old man with a limp pointing a gun at me…you're gay as fuck, and so was that pansy Sherlock Holmes. I bet you butt-fucked each other didn't you? Leading you on and on as some great mastermind then just leaving you? I bet that hurt didn't it? Listen to me homey, stick the gun up your ass and pull the fucking trigger you faggot." He spewed out, and John slowly put down his gun.

"Alright. You're right. You're _so _right," he turned around, and when the kid doubled over laughing, he pounced. His fist found itself being thrown repeatedly at the kid's gut. "Not so vile now are you, you little brat?" The kid screamed and lifted his hands up to his face.

"STOP GET OFF ME!" He shrieked, except John only heard his blood pounding in his ears, and suddenly he was being dragged forcibly backwards and his face shoved into the asphalt.

"John!" The man on top of him was screaming in his ear. "WHAT THE FUCK! DO YOU WANT A LAWSUIT!? ALL HE DID WAS GRAFFITI THE FUCKING PARLIAMENT BUILDING!" John didn't struggle and when he opened his eyes it was blurry, and there was a pain in his throat, there were two feet in his line of sight.

"John." He groaned in response. "You're a fool, and you're fired." _Cool._ He thought, as the pressure was released from his back and his head. He sat up, crossed his legs and buried his face in his hands. This was all so screwed up. He clenched his skull tighter, willing it to crumble between his hands. Something was crumbling inside of him…and he was being crushed by the accumulating pile of it.

"Why are you crying?" He looked up and there stood Sherlock solemnly looking down upon him. John didn't blink; he just felt his face for tears, and found there were a lot.

"I…I don't know…aren't you the expert?" He shook his head and disappeared, leaving him to drown some more.

***So finally I finished that chapter…I've had a lot of stuff plus some annoying bouts of writers block...read/rate/review pleeeaase xD ***


End file.
